Squaring Up
by elbafo
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes was in his early twenties, he participated in illegal bare-knuckle boxing comps. I know this because I was his cornerman.
1. The Wrap

**A/N:** To my usual readers: this is not a romance fic!

It is my personal head canon, as it probably is to most readers, that Sherlock participated in bare-knuckle boxing at some stage in his life. This little ficlet can serve as a background to either of my Sherlock/OC romances (my series canon-compliant story _15 Minutes_ , or my completely AU mega-fic _The Mutual Suicide Pact_ ) or it can stand alone as an independent back story. It was initially going to be a one-shot, but has ended up being four short (by my usual standards) chapters.

I hope you enjoy the story!

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 **Chapter 1: The Wrap**

It was only my second bout this year, but the first where I'd been hired by the promoters, rather than by the fighter himself. With illegal bare-knuckle boxing, you never knew what the terms and conditions of your employment were going to be. For me, it generally meant being treated with the utmost contempt and paid very little, if at all, for the privilege.

The fighter whose lacerations and nosebleeds I would be tending to this evening was called _Shezza_. He didn't look like a Shezza. But then again, I don't have the paunch, broad shoulders and stubble of a cuts man. When Vince, a muscled giant from Newcastle and one of the promoter's menacing-looking offsiders, pointed out Shezza to me, Shezza practically rolled his eyes and tutted at the sound of his own moniker. I guessed it wasn't he who had thought up his boxing handle. I was allocated to him because he didn't even arrive with anyone in his corner.

Shezza was pacing along one side of the 'venue.' We weren't in a gym or sporting complex. This bout was being run from a disused tyre warehouse in an industrial estate just out Stafford. I'd travelled two and a half hours from London for the Saturday night fight. I was hoping it would be worth it. There were no backrooms, or change-rooms for the fighters. Everyone stood, or in Shezza's case, paced, around the large workroom. At least there was a raised platform for a ring, erected from plywood. An improvement on the gravelled car park, or hay bales and dirt of previous comps I'd been to.

This competition allowed hand-wrapping, unlike other comps, as long as the process was supervised by an 'official'. I use the term 'official' lightly. He was a bouncer with a gun tucked into the front of his trousers. I vaguely wondered what would happen if it accidentally went off.

I asked Shezza if he wanted his hands wrapped. It was optional, of course. He looked at me blankly, and I hoped it was because he didn't understand English very well and not because he was appalled that I was in his corner. So I made wrapping gestures with my hands that he eyed suspiciously.

Eventually, he asked, "Are you competent?"

His posh English accent initially threw me, even though I knew that bare-knuckle boxers weren't just Irish travellers or East End rogues. I drew in a deep breath, preparing to deliver my regular spiel. I opened my mouth to recite my credentials of having wrapped hands before, and having volunteered with St. John's Ambulance in my teen years, and that I'm currently studying at uni.

"No, don't bother," Shezza drawled before I had even made a sound. "I'm not interested in your _curriculum vitae._ "

I may have been unprepared for his honest but disinterested dismissal, but I found it a lot more refreshing than being the recipient of the derogatory and irrelevant insults that I usually got.

Shezza took off toward the official who was to dole out our allocation of tape and gauze and to monitor my hand-wrapping skills, or more specifically, ensure I didn't include anything illegal within the wrapping. And I'm talking 'illegal' as in the fairness of the fight, since the whole competition fell under the banner of 'illegal.'

Shezza silently watched me wrap. When I asked him to splay his fingers or close his fists as I worked, he immediately obliged. I was hoping he was impressed with the speed and efficiency with which I completed his hand wrapping. I had given him maximum support and hoped to avoid potential damage to his wrist joints and metacarpus. I think I detected a faint nod of approval.

"Not bad for a medical student," he remarked, testing the firmness of the wrap by clenching and unclenching his fists and then knocking his knuckles together.

I was just about to ask how he knew that about me when he abruptly stalked away.

He wanted to keep warm and oiled, I imagined, as I watched him move about the warehouse from my position at the back of the crowd of baying punters. Shezza's bout was the next but one on the undercard, four fights from the main event. I think I was feeling as nervous as he was.

If Shezza won, I would come home with 3% of his earnings, which I believe stood at £10,000. Yes, I was nervous. I could do with three hundred quid. If Shezza lost, I would come home with zero. In fact, less than zero. I had to pay for my own travel expenses, and if I wasn't lucky enough to be staying at a friend's place, I would never have been able to afford to come. I also had to pay for the stocking of my kit. I'm not sure what Shezza would leave with. He may be lucky to leave with his life, depending on how much was riding on him with the punters. I shuddered to think.

Now and then Shezza would stop and scratch his head. Or he would study the bout that was currently underway. There was nothing to study. It was a one-sided fight.

When the loser took to the canvas, and refused to get up, the ref and his cornerman each grabbed him underneath the arm by the pits and dragged him out of the ring. He lay in a crumpled heap beside a couple of old Michelin CrossClimates.

Shezza strode over to me and tugged his shirt over his head. He threw it toward me where it landed at my feet.

"Grease," he commanded.

I quickly opened my kit bag, which was loaded up with cotton tips, petroleum jelly, a vial of adrenalin at a ratio of 1:1000, coagulant, and an eye iron sitting in a small container of ice. I also had a small towel, an assortment of gauze strips, latex gloves plus a mini first aid kit. I saw Shezza critically eyeing the bag's contents.

I debated whether to don the gloves now or later. Since there was only one fight between now and Shezza's, I decided to be prepared.

Shezza patiently stood in front of me while I slipped on a pair of blue latex gloves. His jaw hardened only slightly at a drunken passerby who coughed up a wad a phlegm and spat it at our feet. I ignored it. I was used to it.

I heaped a blob of the petroleum jelly onto the back of my glove, then began applying it around Shezza's eyes and cheeks. I couldn't help notice how prominent his cheekbones were. They would cause us both a lot of grief, I thought. The skin was stretched over bone and if too dry, it would easily split when struck, giving me a decent laceration I'd have to deal with. I applied an extra layer of grease for good measure.

"You need a prescription for epinephrine," he said, nodding toward my vial. His words were neither a question nor an accusation. I wasn't sure, but I thought I saw a faint hint of a smile on his lips.

He stood by me as we watched the fight. I was drawn to the actions of the cornermen, in between rounds, rather than following which fighter was gaining the upper hand at any point in time. I did eye their growing contusions and lacerations, though, and mentally prepared how I would treat them, giving myself fifty seconds in which to do so. I wondered what kind of fighter Shezza would be. He appeared quiet and contemplative, and he had intelligent eyes. Would that be enough?

At one point, one of the 'officials' sidled up next to Shezza and had a quiet word in his ear. Shezza's eyes remained firmly on the drama in the ring, but he gave one tiny nod in agreement, narrowing his focus only slightly.

I busied myself applying epinephrine to half a dozen cotton tips, and inserting them into a band I wore around my wrist. Shezza glanced over at me, furrowing his brow before fixing me with a half-smile. If it was out of annoyance or appreciation, I couldn't tell.

Suddenly there were loud boos, as the majority of the crowd was upset with the final decision for the current bout. Both fighters sported equal amounts of blood and drooped in identical exhaustion. It was a draw, and as I took in the angry crowd around me, I hadn't noticed Shezza disappear from my side until I spied him on the other side of the ring.

We were up!

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 **A/N** : Next chapter: _The Pretender._

Please review! I hope it's been interesting enough to make you want to keep reading.


	2. The Pretender

**Chapter 2: The Pretender**

"Can you prevent a simple laceration from getting worse?"

I turned to Shezza, thrown by his sudden question out of the blue as he stared fixedly on the master of ceremonies who was announcing the next bout: Shezza from London versus Andy, The Liverpool Lad.

"Um… Ye—"

"Can you recognise when a contusion is going to swell?"

I opened my mouth to respond but Shezza continued speaking at a manic pace while watching the ring.

"I don't want you to offer words of encouragement or tips on how to fight. I expect water in between rounds and a bucket in which to spit. Don't knead away any swelling with the eye iron, keep it in one place, and do refrain from holding the cotton tips in your mouth. That's… all you need to know."

My mouth opened and closed uselessly. This wasn't a normal fighter-cornerman relationship, I concluded. But I did have one question.

"Do you get upset at the sight of your own blood?"

Shezza slowly turned his head toward me. Creases appeared between his brows, but he didn't respond. Suddenly he was away from me and climbing into the ring as the MC called his name. I took his answer as a 'No.'

It had been a valid question. I've seen fighters panicking once back in their corners when they see how much blood appears on the towels or gauze that their cornerman has wiped from their faces. Worse still for these kinds of fighters is when blood drips into an eye from a laceration across their brow or eyelid.

Yes, definitely a valid question.

As I returned my focus to the ring, I gathered that there was a lot more support for The Liverpool Lad, than my boy from London.

The Liverpuddlian wore red shorts, with what I initially thought was a white logo of a small eagle at the bottom edge, until it dawned on me that he was wearing the shorts from the Liverpool Football Club, and the 'eagle' was a Liver bird. Shezza wore simple black boxer shorts that hung almost loosely from his narrow hips and flat abdomen. In contrast to stocky Andy, Shezza cut a very sleight figure. His shoulders were broad enough, his biceps and triceps were sleek and well-cut, but overall his body mass was a lot less than Andy's. I could almost count the Londoner's ribs. I hoped, that with Shezza being the lighter of the two, though half a head taller, that he would also be the most agile.

The referee had a quiet word to both fighters; I caught the words "respect" and "no malice outside the ring." Tell that to the promoters, I thought uneasily.

At the ding of the round bell, my stomach dropped an inch. With each of the rounds being ninety seconds in length, with a one minute rest period between rounds, this could quite possibly be the longest eleven and a half minutes of my life, unless there was a knockout, or either fighter couldn't continue for all five rounds for whatever reason.

The fighters started from the centre lines, paws up, warily eyeing each other and moving in a slow circle. There was a blazing intensity to Shezza's eyes, focussed and calculating, I thought.

"How about a beer, love," said a voice next to me. I knew it was the 'cigarette' girl. She also sold beverages and carried her wares in a cardboard box held in front of her, supported by a strap that ran around the back of her neck. Without looking at her, I knew that she was not wearing much more than a bikini. "You're not gonna do much good up there," she added, laughing. She continued on her way, obviously wanting to make a point about me, and not actually sell me anything.

I gritted my teeth and held my breath when Shezza took a right-handed jab at Andy, which The Liverpool Lad blocked easily. A test jab. A warm up, I thought. Andy returned with a swift combination to the body that Shezza successfully blocked.

There were several calls of, "Come on, Andy," and even one of, "Knock that London tosser on his arse."

Andy lashed out with a right to Shezza's head that he blocked, but it was followed by a flurry of blows to Shezza's body. He blocked some, but enough landed inside which sent him staggering backward toward the ropes. The crowd roared its approval and my heart began hammering in my chest. The first sounds of bare knuckles against flesh always startled me. It wasn't like boxing with gloves on, with the sound almost a pleasant thwack. In gloved boxing the hits are almost constant, but bare-knuckle boxers tend to deliver less punches. Any punch could break bones in their hand, and every punch had to count.

Shezza remained on the defensive, trying to block Andy's multiple body shots, and I found myself muttering, "Get off the ropes," repeatedly. As if he had heard me, Shezza jabbed with his right, then wrapped his left around Andy's torso, which gave the Londoner purchase and a point around which he could pivot. He was now away from the ropes and he delivered a combination of jabs to Andy's body, some of which hit home.

I exhaled.

But my relief was short-lived. Andy drove Shezza back again with a sweeping left hand. The Liverpool Lad continued his assault, throwing three and four punch combinations that Shezza mostly blocked but would retaliate with only one punch at a time. He was on the ropes again. There was something wrong here, I thought. But the round bell sounded and I suddenly had somewhere to be.

I stepped forward, grabbed the stool and shoved it up between the ropes and onto the canvas. Then I mounted the steps two at a time as Shezza sank onto the stool in our corner. His chest was heaving but he held his head up. I thrust the water bottle at him, which he was able to hold himself, thankfully, giving me an opportunity to duck between the ropes myself, and not have to minister to Shezza's needs with my arse sticking out of the ring.

Shezza sat with his knees apart, his elbows resting on his thighs as he sipped water. I stood in front of him and dragged the towel from around my neck to wipe his face. When he stopped drinking I reached for the water bottle, which he willingly gave up, and I used it to squirt water onto the top of his head and down his back. I used the towel again to wipe water across his brow to cool him down.

"Shut up," he said abruptly.

"What?"

"You were about to say something. Don't."

I had no response to that. Perhaps I was thinking of saying something like, _Fantastic blocking, but why don't you get on the offensive?_ but I wasn't allowed to offer words of encouragement nor words of advice.

Shezza's chest was still heaving. Obviously Andy's constant assault this round had worn Shezza down.

One of the spectators poked his head into the ring and yelled a stream of obscenities at us, which we both ignored. One of his mates clapped a hand on the drunken lout's back and they both took off, laughing.

Unshaken, I dabbed at the petroleum jelly on the back of my gloved hand and swiped some more grease across Shezza's brow.

"Move," he said, pushing me slightly to one side. He was trying to get a look at his opponent's corner.

I glanced back. Andy had three people in his corner, which was perfectly legit for this comp—a trainer who was bent in front of him, talking non-stop, and two seconds who were leaning in from outside the ring. It hardly seemed fair, and I was thankful that I didn't have to tend to any gushing lacerations as well as holding the water bottle and delivering sage advice simultaneously. Well, the sage advice had been cut from my job description, so that was one less task.

"Leave," Shezza commanded me, and he suddenly stood up.

The round bell hadn't sounded yet, and my own internal count told me we had about twenty seconds to go. But I slipped between the ropes with my kit, then grabbed the stool from the canvas once I was back on the ground.

Shezza bounced around on his feet a little, shook his arms loose, then tilted his head from side to side. He seemed okay for now.

The round bell sounded and both fighters squared up in the centre once more. At the ref's call to "Fight", they both began circling again. This time Andy immediately opened up with a combination upstairs. One jab hit Shezza smack on his left cheek. Shezza's head jerked sideways, but he otherwise held his ground. Shezza retaliated with a left hook that didn't hold any real power. Andy's counter-punch was swift and unforgiving, sending Shezza flailing backwards.

The fight continued on the ropes once more, if you could call it a fight. Shezza was taking a pounding to his body, but for some unknown reason, Andy caught him in a headlock. The ref called, "Break," which gave Shezza the opportunity to move off the ropes.

Shezza let fly a couple of jabs, but he didn't seem to be committing to his punches. He stepped back, putting a bit of distance between them both, and this is when I witnessed something that disturbed me greatly.

I had already pegged Shezza for being light on his feet, quick of eye and reflex. So when The Liverpool Lad pulled back for a powerful right cross, turning his head with his hand, I saw Shezza wind back for a high counter punch. His blow would've had double the impact because Andy was going to bring his head around with his own punch, thus connecting with Shezza's fist hurtling at it from the opposite direction. This would've been a knockout and a win to Shezza, of this I was sure. But Shezza's bicep twitched, he didn't follow through and in the blink of an eye he was out on the canvas.

Shezza arched his back with bent knees, digging his heels into the canvas, then twisted to his side. I could see he was holding one side of his face and writhing in pain. The count had begun. The crowd was ecstatic by this stage, and all I could do was to look on helplessly.

Andy, who was meant to be confined to his corner, took two great strides toward his downed opponent. Fortunately, the ref was upon him and pushed him back to his corner before he could inflict any further damage to Shezza while he was on the canvas—not an uncommon occurrence in illegal bouts.

Shezza had righted himself and pushed up onto one knee, then shakily stood. The ref stopped in front of him, seeking confirmation that Shezza could continue. I held my breath. Shezza gave an imperceptible nod, then slowly raised his fists. I pushed out a shaky breath. It seems I was alone in my relief.

As Andy met him in the centre of the ring, I searched Shezza's face for contusions and lacerations. A blow to the eye would almost certainly result in swelling, and if Andy had hit his mark dead on, Shezza's eye could swell above and below it, effectively sealing it shut. A contusion above the eye also posed a problem. Repeated blows to a swollen area could cause the skin to split. And then we'd have a bleed above the eye.

But that wasn't the issue Shezza had right now. The Liverpool Lad was upon him once more, and the number of blows Andy was able to get inside Shezza's defences told me that the blow to his eye was causing problems with his vision. Andy threw another big punch, and Shezza lost his balance. He caught himself on the ropes, but as he held on, he had nothing to block with, allowing Andy to pile on the punches. Fortunately the bell rang and Shezza was able to stumble over to our corner.

He slumped onto the stool as I hastily slipped into the ring. I poured water over his head, neck and shoulders with one hand while I used the other to wipe his face with the towel. I had already retrieved the eye iron from the ice and it was hooked around my index finger. I dropped the towel over one of my shoulders, then I pressed the iron to his brow, using my other hand to hold the water bottle in front of Shezza so he could drink. Shezza wasn't able to hold the bottle himself at this time.

"Don't bother," he said eventually, after sucking on some water and trying to move his head away from the eye iron.

I placed the water bottle onto the canvas, giving me a free hand to hold the back of his head so he couldn't move it away again.

"You have severe swelling over your left eye," I said. "This is my cold compress, and I'm applying it to the contusion to make the swelling go down."

I knew that Shezza would hate me talking to him, but he had specifically stated that I was not to offer words of encouragement or give advice. This was neither. This was me doing my job.

"Swelling is caused by cell fluid—"

"Don't… speak."

Talking obviously caused him a great deal of pain, so I abruptly stopped my information sharing, realising he would try to voice his objections. Since he was basically slumped forward on the stool, I was kneeling in front of him, which resulted in the usual derogatory comments from the rogues gallery. But another figure stood just outside the ring, by Shezza's corner. It was the official who had spoken quietly to him just before his bout. The man said, in a kind, supportive voice, "Just give us a bit of a proper fight, yeah?"

And he disappeared into the crowd.

I thought it was an odd sort of comment—not a threat, but a request, as if Shezza could somehow fulfil it.

Then suddenly my stomach lurched and a heated flush spread across my face. Everything had become perfectly clear to me. _A proper fight_. I clenched my jaw before bowing my head toward Shezza.

I kept my voice even, although I was seething internally.

"Are you getting paid to throw this fight?"

Shezza gave no indication that he heard my query, but his silence was guilt enough for me. I stopped applying pressure to his brow, dropped my gear into my kit bag, and stood. I was conflicted.

This was an illegal competition, fraught with dodgy dealings and even dodgier characters. Why should it surprise me that fights were fixed? Was it because I had been unwittingly made a player in the pantomime? That I had been allocated to a fighter who was guaranteed to lose? Did anyone really care how much effort I put in? Did Shezza?

The churning in my gut intensified. I demanded respect, and this was not it.

I regarded Shezza for the briefest of seconds before I slipped out of the ring, leaving him with his head bowed, sitting on the stool, the water bottle at his feet.

.

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 **A/N:** Hope that read okay! Writing this type of extended sequence is new to me. Please review! I'd love to hear your thoughts :)

Next up: _The Fighter._ It's already written, and will be posted in a day or two.


	3. The Fighter

**C** **hapter 3 – The Fighter**

I was going to walk out. I fully intended to walk out. Here I was, trying to prove myself, desperately needing the money and I was going to be made a fool. Not needed or respected, and I won't even get paid.

Shezza took a sip of water, then dropped the bottle onto the canvas where it tipped over, then rolled from the ring. The rest period ended and Shezza stood, slowly making his way back to the centre.

I found myself moving forward and removing the stool from the corner. I then stooped to retrieve the water bottle from the ground. I stood back into position, my eyes drawn to the ring. I couldn't leave, not yet. I had to know why this was the preferred option for Shezza. He could easily have beaten Andy. What had he been offered that was better than ten thousand quid?

Round three commenced with the fighters wearily circling again. But this time Shezza instigated the first punch with a hard right hand shot. The Lad staggered, but immediately counter-acted with a swift combo. Shezza blocked them both, then ducked as Andy took a swipe to his head.

The dubious-sounding official had said, _Give us a bit of a proper fight_ , and now Shezza was obliging.

I clenched my fists. I was fuming. The crowd loved it. They were getting their money's worth, but as long as The Liverpool Lad came up trumps, right? At what point would Shezza give in? Was there a signal, a particular round? There were only five rounds in the bout, so perhaps they were going to go all the way to the final bell before he threw it.

Shezza was dominating and Andy hadn't landed anything worthwhile up top. Then Shezza dropped his left, giving Andy the perfect opening to take a jab at Shezza's injured eye. And again, another quick jab. Andy had worked the eye until a cut had appeared. Shezza reeled backwards, a thick line of deep red appearing on his brow. He shook his head as if to clear his vision and that's when Andy took him down with a combination of left hook, then a right upper cut to the jaw.

Shezza met the canvas with a resounding thud. Blood pooled above his eyelid as he lay flattened on his stomach, with his face turned toward me.

The crowd was baying for blood. A promoter had once proudly boasted that bare-knuckle boxing was the ultimate in gladiatorial sports. It definitely sounded like it right now. The noise of the crowd swelled and roared in excitement. My own blood felt heated and adrenalin coursed through my veins.

 _Get up_ , I thought. I could see Shezza's one good eye was fixed on me. "Get up," I said through gritted teeth. The ref was counting, the spectators were yelling. I stepped toward the ring, and bent a little so that my face was almost at canvas level. "Get up!" I yelled. Even I could feel the desperation mounting in my voice. The noise of the crowd swelled, reaching a frenzied pitch. The count continued. I was at the side of the ring.

" _Get up!"_

There was a spark of recognition in Shezza's good eye, but I was suddenly yanked backwards. It was the leering, jeering drunken lout who had a hold on the back of my hoodie, and he then shoved me hard against his equally intoxicated mate. I lost balance, and they laughed as I fell against another group of spectators. White hot fury surged through me. I recovered, clenched my fists by my side and snarled, "Back off!" This brought a fresh round of laughter from the two gentlemen.

I turned back to the ring. Shezza had pushed up onto his hands and was just about to bring himself to his knees when Andy left his corner and, with one almighty kick, booted Shezza in the stomach. The ref saw too late and bundled Andy back to his corner to giving him a stern shouting to. Shezza curled up again and rocked to his side, his back to me. I suppose the only good thing to come out of that, was the ref's decision to start the count again.

Some of the spectators objected fiercely to this and a few of them surged forward toward the ring, yelling obscenities at both the downed Londoner and the referee. Only I seemed to remain silent in an ocean of baying, hungry fight fans.

Shezza rolled to his hands and knees again, his head bowed, his back muscles glistening with sweat and rippling as he worked to push himself upwards. He was upright, but on one knee when the ref was halfway through his count. He brought his second leg forward, planting his foot unsteadily then rose on two feet. Not a popular move with the crowd, but my chest heaved as I allowed myself to breathe again.

I regarded his face as Shezza continued to steady himself and the ref stood in front of him to assess his capacity to continue. The ref stretched out an arm to Andy's corner as a signal that the Liverpuddlian should stay put. A stream of blood coursed slowly along Shezza's left eye socket and out to the corner of his eye. It wasn't bleeding into his eye yet, but it was now an outlined target to which Andy's fists would be drawn.

Shezza nodded to the ref, bringing his hands up and planting his feet along the centre line. As the Liverpuddlian swaggered from his corner before putting his own fists in the air, I quickly removed from my wristband the cotton tips I'd prepared earlier. I had to get a fresh lot ready and dipped in the adrenaline solution. Sod this. I had a job to do.

At the ref's call to fight, Shezza danced forward and pounded Andy's unguarded smarmy grin in a quick combination of left and right jabs. Andy wasn't smiling now. He lashed out with a right hook but Shezza ducked before slamming his right fist into The Lad's solar plexus, sending him backward toward the edge of the ring.

The round bell sounded and the crowd booed their objections. Shezza's shoulders slumped as he returned to his corner where I'd already hastily shoved his stool.

I knew it took me five seconds to enter the ring and five seconds to exit, leaving me fifty seconds in which to tend to a fighter's lacerations. I was prepared.

I poured water first over Shezza's head and shoulders, then held the bottle for him while he weakly sipped from it. At the same time I wiped away the smears of blood from his brow and cheek. Once Shezza had finished drinking, I dropped the water bottle and held gauze to his brow, applying pressure to either side of the cut. When he tried to slump forward, I pushed him back onto the corner post and tilted his head as I stood over him.

"Not this time," I said forcefully, of his intention to hang his head in defeat.

I removed the gauze then swiftly drew out the cotton tips that had been soaked in the adrenalin solution. I held two of them to the cut above his brow.

"I…" he began, his voice like gravel.

"Don't speak," I said, applying more pressure to his brow to squeeze every last drop of epinephrine into the cut.

"I didn't think," he began again with great effort. I shushed him fiercely, but he continued despite this. "I didn't think… you'd be… competent."

I drew my lips into a thin line before making eye contact with him.

"I have a strong stomach and I can remain cool under pressure," I said. "And some of us take pride in our work. It's all about _self-respect._ "

I knew there were ten seconds to go, so I removed the cotton tips, noting that I'd staunched the flow for now. I then coated the gash with more petroleum jelly before gathering up my kit and slipping out of the ring just in time as the call came to end the break.

Shezza shook himself to lose his grogginess as I removed the stool from the ring. He bounced on his feet and tilted his head from side to side again. Andy approached, fixing Shezza with an arrogant sneer. The ref said a few stern words of warning, mostly directed at Andy, then called to them to fight. Round four had begun.

Shezza's right hand shot out in an instant, connecting with a loud thwack to Andy's nose. Andy reeled backwards. Shezza then danced forward, delivering a three punch combination to The Lad's chest, following by a hard right cross to the head. The noise of the crowd swelled in anger. Other spectators jostled me forward.

"'e's gunna burn 'imself out," one man commented beside me. I didn't agree.

The Liverpool Lad had staggered backwards toward the ropes. A dark red stream slowly snaked its way underneath his nose toward his upper lip. Shezza was bouncing on his feet again, and had lowered his hands, taunting Andy to strike out at him.

Andy's mouth curved downwards in a determined grimace. He rocked unsteadily, then jabbed unconvincingly with his right. Shezza took the blow but remained solid in his stance. A tiny smile played at the corners of his lips. He bounced lightly in front of Andy again, with his paws lowered. Andy struck out again hitting air as Shezza tilted his head to one side. Shezza retaliated with a couple of blows to The Lad's chest, driving him back to the ropes.

A few spectators gravitated toward the ring, calling to Andy to get in there.

Shezza kept his hands down, a confident, almost arrogant gesture as he rocked in front of Andy. He moved backwards, giving Andy sufficient space to recover and move forward to the centre of the ring. Shezza let Andy's punches connect again, but the Londoner made no indication that the blows caused him any grief. I could see what he was doing. He was establishing a psychological dominance over Andy. The Liverpool Lad's punches continued to be weak and ineffective. He was tiring. Shezza only had to dodge the punches that came close to hitting his left eye.

Intermittently Shezza would stretch out with a jab that hit home with pinpoint accuracy. Andy's nosebleed was a steady stream now, and there was an air of desperation to his punches. Shezza remained up on his toes, looking fresh and sharp as if he had just entered a brand new fight. Now and again he seemed to grow bored with The Lad not landing a clean shot, and he would drop his defences hoping that Andy would reassert himself.

Suddenly the Liverpuddlian advanced forward, catching Shezza off-guard and landing a left hook to the Londoner's temple. Shezza staggered, dizzy with the force of the blow, which Andy used to his advantage to a roaring crowd. The Lad unleashed a flurry of punches to the body that Shezza was slow to block.

Shezza's superior footwork in this instance, enabled him to put distance between the two, giving him a few seconds recovery time. He dummied with a right jab that Andy immediately went to block, but Shezza swiftly pulled back and with lightning speed he crossed around and behind Andy's block, smashing the Lad in the side of the head. As the force of the blow caused Andy to drop forward, Shezza used his left in a clean uppercut to the Lad's jaw. Andy dropped backward to the canvas, where he lay, immobile.

The crowd appeared to gasp in unison, before shouts of descent covered the almost silence.

It was a knockout. Shezza was the victor. The ref's count appeared unnecessary; Andy was not getting up, despite a moan or two. Shezza moved to his corner during the count, as per the rules, and as he turned to face the centre of the ring, he shot me a look. I had no idea what that look meant.

Not immediately anyway. But a cold hand began to creep along my heart and I found myself moving backward as the crowd pushed ever-eagerly forward to witness the final call. When I reached the back wall of the tyre warehouse, the ref called it, striding over to Shezza and raising his arm in victory. Surprisingly there came quite a few jubilant shouts and cheers over the boos of dissent. Nice to know a handful of people had bet against the Liverpuddlian.

I quickly took off my latex gloves and dropped them into my bag. I gripped it just a bit tighter as Shezza made to leave the ring. I hastened to narrow the gap between me and the side door. I could feel an uncomfortable prickling in the air. But it appeared that the organisers wanted to keep things moving along, with the MC immediately announcing the next bout, speaking his usual preamble as Andy's cornermen strived to remove their fighter from the ring.

Over the heads, I caught sight of Shezza moving through the crowd. Suddenly he was blocked by the drunken lout and his mate. They appeared to be giving him their usual poignant thoughts on life. I'm sure Shezza had little time for their thuggish comments, but I wasn't prepared for him to suddenly lunge forward and deliver a brutal headbutt to the main offender. The crowd parted around them as the drunken lout collapsed to the ground.

Shezza made a beeline for the door as bouncers closed in to remove the intoxicated pair. Thankfully they ignored Shezza. He saw me and in spite of the swelling on his brow, his eyes seemed to dance with the prospect of something far more exciting. He gave me a lopsided grin, grabbed the sleeve of my hoody, and dragged me out through the door.

"I'm glad you understood the message," he said, with a determined stride. "But I really hope you can run."

.

* * *

 **A/N:** I hope that was a satisfying win for you! I had so much fun choreographing the bout. Only one chapter left.

Next up: _The Flight_

 _Review? :D_


	4. The Flight

**A/N:** The beginning section features a small cameo by a character from one of my other fics, for the amusement of a handful of readers, most notably _Cosmic Daeva_ :)

This chapter got really long but I was impatient to deliver it to you in its entirety and finish this thing. This "thing" that I originally touted as a one-shot. But it is indeed the final chapter! You guys are awesome in your enthusiasm for Sherlock's skills in the ring. I hope you enjoy the final part of this adventure!

x

* * *

 **Chapter 4 – The Flight**

"Wait here. Don't move," Shezza said to me once we'd rounded the corner of one of the industrial buildings situated on the same lot as the tyre warehouse.

He jogged lightly across the yard, through a chain-link fence and disappeared beyond the circle of light emitted by the lamp at the end of a court. I looked around uneasily. Why I decided to trust in him, I do not know.

"Try that again," said a female voice that floated from around the same corner we'd come, "and I'll not only—"

I turned my head to the couple who had just appeared alongside me. The woman, sporting long, shiny, raven locks, had her arm linked through a young man's. He wore a smart suit, yet appeared uncomfortable in both the suit and on the arm of the woman.

She smiled at me, and said, in a charming Welsh accent, "Wonderful job in there, darling." She departed with a quick wink, steering the man across the yard. "And I'll not only cut it off," she continued saying to him, "but I'll..." Her final words were whispered into the unfortunate man's ear, for he pulled away from her with a look of alarm. Chuckling, she led him through the gap in the fence.

I drifted into the shadows of a plumbing wholesaler's warehouse, and hoped that nobody else from the fight came by.

A few minutes later, Shezza appeared at the fence and he beckoned me forward. I hastened to his side and he said, "The coast's all clear for the moment. Let's get going."

"To where?"

He didn't answer, but strode away from me, as if he didn't care if I actually followed. I noticed he'd donned the t-shirt he'd had on before the fight as well as an old pea-coat. He'd also managed to throw on a pair of dark jeans and had discarded the wrapping around his hands. From where he'd retrieved the clothes, I had no idea.

After a few minutes of zigzagging through the narrow, semi-lit streets of the industrial estate, we pulled up in front of a storage warehouse. Shezza approached one set of roller doors and bent down to unlock it with keys he'd also produced out of thin air. He then hoisted the door upwards and I could just make out the dark shape of a car inside.

Shezza strode into the shed and stood on the driver's side of the car. He bid me to climb into the passenger seat.

"What's behind door number two?" I asked, with an uneasy smile.

He furrowed his brow and stared at me. "What door?"

My grinned broadened, and I stammered, "It's... just a joke."

He shook his head at me and said, "You shouldn't tell jokes."

He left me wondering if my joke was really not funny, if it wasn't appropriate for the situation, or if he just failed to have a sense of humour.

As I settled into the plush leather passenger seat, I asked, "Is this… ah... a..."

"—symbol of a man fast approaching a premature mid-life crisis? Yes it is."

I didn't know how to respond to that, but I assumed that Shezza wasn't talking about himself. Or perhaps he _was_ taking a dig at himself. That would have to be a very premature mid-life crisis. I didn't think he was much older than I was.

The car roared to life, and Shezza slowly backed it out of the narrow shed, turning on the headlights as we moved. Curiosity got the better of me, and I asked, "Where did you get it from?"

"I borrowed it from a friend," he replied, with his now characteristic half-smile gracing his features. He stopped the car once we had cleared the shed, and as he climbed out, he added, "When I say _borrowed_..."

I watched as he pulled down the roller door and locked it, all the while wondering why a well-to-do young man, who had a friend from whom he could _borrow_ an Aston Martin, was indulging in illegal bare-knuckle boxing bouts, and throwing matches, or not throwing matches as the case turned out to be.

Shezza returned to the vehicle, and continued speaking as if there hadn't been a gap in the conversation.

"And when I say _friend_..."

He turned the car around, and we sped off through the narrow streets, much too fast for an industrial estate and at night, I thought. I guess it was rather telling when I gripped the door handle.

Shezza shot me a look and said, "Oh relax. I have driven this car a couple of times now."

"Do we have somewhere we need to be?" I asked nervously as he took the car around a bend that was designed to be taken at a more leisurely pace.

"I'd have thought that was obvious," was his reply.

As we left the estate and hit a straighter road, Shezza opened the car up. I thought idle conversation may help him reduce our speed. Perhaps I was wrong there.

"So... you borrowed the car?"

"Stole it."

"Okay."

"From my brother, the ponce."

I breathed in deeply. "He won't miss it then?"

Shezza scowled and gripped the steering wheel just that bit tighter.

"He keeps it at our parents' home in the country. He already drives a Range Rover when he's out there, but this one sits in the garage like some kind of poncy trophy. He has no idea what this car is capable of. I suspect on the one occasion he drove it, he never took it over forty miles per hour."

Shezza stretched out a hand and patted the dashboard, as if in sympathy.

"And your brother's not using the car this weekend?"

Shezza's jaw hardened and he narrowed his eyes as his focus remained firmly on the highway.

"Not unless he wants to sit in it and make purring noises. No, I left a cupcake for him in place of the keys. He'll be torn between reporting the theft to the authorities and blowing his diet. Although I'm sure he can work out who took it."

I smiled uneasily in spite of myself. I really didn't know what I was doing here. I pushed my foot to the floor, as if that would help us decelerate. The countryside flashed by in dark silhouettes of trees and shrubs and the wide open greys of unlit fields. I had a feeling we were no longer in Staffordshire.

After clearing my throat, I asked, "So, what do you do when you're not... boxing? You don't seem the type." Oops. I think I put my foot in it again.

"I may as well ask you why a nineteen year old first year medical student is playing at being a cornerman in an illegal boxing match. And so far from London."

I stared at Shezza in surprise. "How... did you know... I was from London?"

"Well, you currently live in London, going by your shoes. But you sound like you're from the Midlands. East Midlands if I'm not mistaken. _Possibly_ Northamptonshire. Ah, here we are."

I looked in the direction to which he'd indicated with a nod of his head, but my mind was now on my shoes, how they revealed that I currently lived in London, and how he could possibly know I was originally from Northamptonshire.

Shezza slowed the car down and we turned into what looked like an old car yard. The sight of rusted car bodies and orphaned spare parts in the half moon light didn't bring any relief to my already frazzled nerves.

We drove through the wreckers at a more sedate pace, thankfully.

"Um... why...?"

"Best you don't know," Shezza replied.

"I'm not quite sure why I'm here."

"You're here because you're semi-competent. Would you rather have stayed back at the fight?"

I didn't answer his question, and instead studied the remains of dismantled cars and lorries through the window. The narrow driveway rose in a gentle slope, and before long we were idling alongside a long wooden fence. Shezza wound down his window, then switched off the engine.

"And now we wait," he said.

I took in our surroundings as Shezza fumbled in his pockets before producing a crumpled cigarette packet. He pushed in the cigarette lighter, then retrieved one cigarette for himself. He held out the packet to me.

"I don't smoke," I said.

"No. You don't," he stated. "But I thought you may like to start."

He fixed me with a broad grin that I couldn't help but respond to, but I shook my head at the offer. Shezza had almost smoked two cigarettes before I felt brave enough to make small talk again; he beat me to it.

"Oh, I should ask if you know how to drive."

"Yes, I can drive," I answered cautiously. "Why?"

He glanced at his watch.

"Because in five minutes I'm going to disappear behind that fence and conduct a bit of business. Meanwhile, you're going to sit in the driver's seat and wait until you hear a disturbance—people yelling, swearing, slamming car doors, that kind of thing—and then you're going to turn on the engine, and drive the car at speed continuing along this fence line here. This car does zero to sixty in six seconds. And before you ask, yes I have tested it. Now once you get to the bottom, wait for me there. I'll be the one hurtling around the corner carrying a small bag, with a group of angry men hot at my heels."

I stared blankly in the direction that Shezza was now indicating with his cigarette and tried to picture that scenario.

"And then what happens?" I asked, my voice devoid of all emotion as I stared transfixed at the spot at the bottom of the hill that could ultimately be my last location on earth.

"You drive," he said, his mouth quirking into a smile, "as if your life depended on it."

Five minutes later, Shezza had disappeared and I was behind the steering wheel of a shiny three-year-old Aston Martin that had been traded for a cupcake, and wondering how I came to be here. I had already given up my weekend to attend to cuts and bruises in an illegal boxing match so far out of London, instead of ignoring my housemates and their partying while I tried to finish an essay.

The essay was looking really appealing right now.

Both windows of the car had been wound down so I wouldn't miss whatever noises I was supposed to listen out for. Now and again, I'd reach for the ignition key, thinking I'd heard a scuffle, but it wasn't until I heard the real disturbance that I realised there was no way I would've missed my cue.

It started with a gunshot, and then shouting. No car doors slamming, but that was okay, I got the message loud and clear and immediately started the engine. I'd already familiarised myself with where the important instruments were, like the knob for the headlights, for example, and I slammed the stick into first, removed the handbrake, and hit the accelerator. The car lurched, jerked, and stalled. Damn manual transmission! I could never get the hang of gently releasing the clutch with my foot before applying more pressure to the accelerator. I guess I should've told Shezza that. Or perhaps next time he should steal a car with automatic transmission.

I started the engine again, with my foot hard down on the clutch. But I stalled it again. I found it very difficult to gently lift my foot off the clutch when I was in panic mode. Whatever happened to the ability to remain calm under pressure?

I tried for the third time and happened to glance up through the windscreen. I was shocked to see Shezza running toward me at top speed, carrying a small bag, just as he said he would be, with the dark blobs of possibly enraged men quite a distance behind. I guess his physique did give him the speed and agility I had pegged him for. But now was not the time for self-congratulation.

Shezza was madly gesturing to me, and it took me a few seconds to realise that he wanted me to get out of the driver's seat. I couldn't have agreed more on that decision. I climbed somewhat awkwardly across the gear box to the passenger seat as Shezza leapt into the driver's side. He thrust the small bag at me, started the engine and slammed the gears into reverse.

"Can't drive a manual transmission," he muttered, as we accelerated backwards along the fenceline and away from the heaving, out of breath thugs.

"I can, sort of."

" _Sort of_ doesn't cut it," he said, swiftly changing to first gear and turning the car around. " _Sort of_ gets you killed."

We sped off in the direction we had come, with the original getaway plans, whatever they were, out the window.

 _Sort of gets you killed._ That sounded very… final.

I was quite happy for Shezza to drive as fast as he liked right now. I quickly pulled the seatbelt around me and clicked it into place.

"Good idea," he said.

We both remained silent as Shezza concentrated on not only getting us out of the car yard, but on putting as much distance between us and the angry group as possible.

We sped for miles and miles before I released my grip on the bag.

"I _can_ drive a manual transmission," I felt compelled to mutter.

Shezza shot me a look.

"You can _sort of_ drive a manual transmission. Imagine if you could _sort of_ tend to a hematoma, or _sort of_ staunch the blood flowing out of a laceration. What kind of cutman would you be?"

"Well, it's a good thing I'm here to be your cuts man and not your getaway driver."

"Cuts man," he repeated, smirking slightly. "How very Northern of you."

"Cutman," I stated. "How very American of you."

Shezza briefly smiled at my comment, then said, "No, you're here because of this." He prodded the bag in my lap.

I gazed down at the bag, not understanding its relevance.

"Congratulations," Shezza added, surprising me with a perfect imitation of a Northern accent. "You've just blagged a bookies."

I opened and closed my mouth ineffectually, not comprehending.

"What?"

"You," he said, thankfully once again in his normal accent, "with your credit card debt and your share house, living and studying in a city as expensive as London. You're here for the prize money. My prize money, or at least a percentage of it. Well, there it is. Why don't you count it?"

I swallowed hard and stared at the bag in my lap.

"You have to open it," Shezza said.

I slowly unzipped the bag. It looked like there were hundreds of fifty pound notes inside. A thousand questions entered my head as my heart thundered out of control at what he'd done. What _we'd_ done.

"Why did you steal from them? How did you know they'd be there? Who are they? Are they the fight promoters?"

Shezza continued concentrating on the road ahead, but a faint smile was threatening to surface again from underneath his otherwise calm exterior.

"About twenty minutes ago police raided an illegal boxing match in an industrial estate just outside Stafford, tipped off by an anonymous caller."

"You?"

"No. But I knew it was going to happen." He settled into his seat as if to get comfortable for the story telling. "We were going to get stiffed on the winnings. All of us. Not just the ones who were supposed to throw their fights, but the victors as well. And their cornermen." He glanced at me and smiled. "By the way, I had no intention of throwing that fight."

I drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly to steady myself.

"But that was a nice gesture," he said with a half-smile. "Your encouraging words from outside the ring. They were really… touching."

I returned his smile with a scowl. "So you were pretending to throw the fight? You were always going to win?"

"Well, technically nobody can ever guarantee their own win. But I was going to do my best. Something about _pride_ and _self-respect_."

I wanted to thump him, and I knew a spot above his eye that appeared particularly vulnerable.

"It was one of the organisers who called the police," he continued. "Their intention was to disrupt the evening's proceedings so everybody would scatter. They'd take off with the purse without giving out any winnings. That car yard was their rendezvous point. I simply took what belonged to the fighters."

"You've got all of it in here?"

"We'll take out our share, of course, then I'll hand over the rest to a mate of mine to distribute—Hugh McMurdo. Have you heard of him?"

"The boxer from the East End?"

Shezza nodded.

I continued to stare at the contents of the bag.

"Why don't you count out your share?" he suggested, reaching for the switch to turn on the interior light. Thankfully he'd reduced our speed as well.

I picked up a wad of notes. This didn't seem right somehow. I flicked through six fifties, and made to pull them out of the larger bundle.

"How much do you think you're entitled to?" he asked.

"Three percent of your winnings," I replied, suddenly feeling more apprehensive than I already was. "Three hundred pounds. Isn't that three percent of ten thousand?"

"Yes," he said, "but my share is one hundred thousand, so that makes your share three thousand pounds."

I stared dumbly at the notes in my hand. Three thousand pounds. That wasn't what the organisers told me, and it was over and above what I had hoped for.

"But how can that be?"

"McMurdo and I worked out our cut of the purse irrespective of the prize money offered for our bouts. But I don't need all that. Why don't you take fifty?"

"Fifty?"

"Fifty thousand."

If I thought I was unworthy of three thousand, then fifty thousand was way beyond my capacity to comprehend.

"I... don't..."

"Buy yourself something nice," Shezza said conversationally. "Put a deposit on a better place than the house you're sharing now. A flat perhaps."

My mind buzzed with a hundred possibilities.

"A flat would be nice," I murmured, mostly to myself. "We can't have pets in our house. I've always wanted a cat."

Shezza huffed a tiny laugh.

"What about you?" I asked. "Would you buy a car? Fifty thousand pounds would get you something decent. Not a car like this though."

"Why would I need a car in London?" he asked. "No, I've got my eye on a nice little flat just around the corner from the British Museum, in Montague Street. I should be able to put a deposit on it."

"Wow, central London."

I stared dreamily out of the window. Of course I wouldn't get a flat. I'd probably give the money away to charity. Or save it. I should probably save it to pay off my credit card debt.

I started to focus on the view outside the car. I noticed the number of brightly lit houses now. We were definitely not in the open countryside anymore. We appeared to be in a quiet suburban street. I had no idea where we were.

"I'm also in need of a good coat," Shezza continued. "I've always wanted a better, longer-lasting one than this sort of thing," he added, glancing at his pea-coat.

"We are we?" I asked, disregarding Shezza's garment musings.

He stopped the car outside a very familiar-looking terraced house.

"This is where you're staying isn't it?" Shezza asked.

I stared up at the residence, once again not comprehending how Shezza came to know things about me.

"You dropped this out of your pocket," he said, handing me a folded up piece of notepaper, "while we were wandering around the industrial estate. It has the name, address and phone number of a place in Stoke-on-Trent. Why else would you have it if you weren't staying here for the weekend?"

"We're still in Staffordshire."

"Yes. I went the long way round."

"Okay," I replied, without moving from my seat.

"I don't think you understand," he said, lowering his voice and leaning in to me. "You have to leave this area as soon as possible. I've brought you here to pick up your things."

"I'm... I'm catching the train back tomorrow," I said.

"Let me make it perfectly clear. We have relieved a group of unsavoury characters of at least two hundred thousand pounds. You need to put some distance between them and yourself. Quietly retrieve your belongings; don't make a fuss inside and panic your hosts. I'll wait just around the corner. The neighbours might get anxious. This car does tend to draw attention to itself."

I regarded Shezza for a moment, unable to figure him out. I remained confused about our situation. He gave me a reassuring smile. Without thinking too much about my next move, I left the car, placing the bag of cash onto the passenger seat, and went inside the house to gather up my things. My 'hosts' were having a few drinks in the back garden, so I thanked them for minding my stuff for the day, and made excuses about having to be back in London by morning.

When I came back out onto the street, I could see the red rear lights of the Aston Martin just around the corner. As I approached the car, I had a strange feeling of déjà vu—of unsuitable boyfriends waiting for me before a date, out of sight of our house and therefore my parents. And there was Shezza, leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette.

"Ah," he said, dropping the burning ember to the footpath. He trod on it, then opened the boot for me allowing me to drop my things into it. After he'd slammed it shut, he said, "Here's the thing: I could drop you at the train station so you can wait all evening for the next train south, or..."

He looked at me with his eyebrows raised, obviously prompting me to work out the rest for myself.

"Or what?"

"Or you could join me on a road trip back to London." A broad smile stretched across his face from cheek to cheek, before a more entertaining notion crossed his mind. "I'd love to see the look on my brother's face when he discovers the odometer reading."

I chuckled lightly.

"We could share the driving," he added. "So next time you won't be able to just _sort of_ drive a manual transmission."

"Will there be a next time?" I asked, smiling ruefully.

"I could always do with a semi-competent cornerman."

"I'm not sure anybody will be asking Shezza from London to participate in another illegal bout."

"Shezza," he repeated with a derisive laugh. He extended a hand and said warmly, "Sherlock Holmes."

What an amazing name, I thought. I returned his handshake and said, "I'd only be too happy to be in your corner."

His smile broadened, reaching the corners of his eyes, and I came to see him in a whole new light. He still held my hand lightly and was waiting for me to introduce myself. Suddenly I was no longer a confident, competent cornerman but a blushing nineteen year old girl.

"M-Molly," I stammered back. "Molly Hooper."

-o-

* * *

 **A/N:** Who saw that coming, you clever things! I thought I'd drop enough hints, especially in the last half of this chapter, that Sherlock's corner 'man' was Molly.

Not a romance, although you could read it like the start of one if that's how you see their relationship. Otherwise it's the beginning of a very long friendship where Sherlock sometimes forgets to treat Molly Hooper with the respect she deserves.

Acknowledgements: _Librarianmum_ and _thedragonaunt_ for chatting to me about the type of car Mycroft may have.

For all info regarding boxing and BKB there are old HBO PPV bouts on YouTube. I am a new fan of a Welsh boxer called Joe Calzaghe although he's probably retired by now. Quite a character. For hints and tips on how to box (I've never boxed in my life!) there's expertboxing dot com. There's quite a few BKB bouts on YouTube as well and they are (not surprisingly) cringe-worthy. Not a Shezza in sight! There are also plenty of news articles about illegal boxing in Britain. I watched (pressing fast forward) a few boxing movies. I didn't like them, I have to say!

This ficlet is dedicated to my favourite Sherlolly author _thedragonaunt_ , who has changed my view on Molly completely. For obvious reasons, I couldn't put this note at the start of the story. I hope you enjoyed it, tda, and I bet you had your suspicions on the cutman's identity ;)

Thank you to you, dear readers, for indulging my little foray into Sherlock's secret past. I hope it was an enjoyable read! I'd really appreciate it if you could share your thoughts in a review :D

Til the next one,

~elbafo


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